


So The Story Goes

by megyal



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Community: sexy_right, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-08
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-11-09 10:05:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Matt can say, without the slightest hesitation, that working for Tony Stark is...interesting.</p>
          </blockquote>





	1. So The Story Goes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt can say, without the slightest hesitation, that working for Tony Stark is...interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for the [Sexy Right LFoDH 5th Anniversary Fest](http://sexy-right.livejournal.com/) over at LJ! I have to tell you, I really enjoyed writing it.

Matt can say, without the slightest hesitation, that working for Tony Stark is...interesting. The guy can be an absolute tool, like, 89.56% of the time, but he's so fucking brilliant that it can cancel out his immense capacity for doucherocity, but only sometimes. Also, he's Iron Man, which is seventy levels of So Fucking Cool that even Warlock is impressed, and Warlock's mom, and Matt can tell you that it's super hard to impress Mrs. Kaludis.

And hey, working for Tony Stark is, pound-for-pound, so much better than being under lock-down in some Fibbie compound, kept away from anything with the slightest electrical pulse because everyone was like, whoooaaa kid's gonna try to melt the whole country again. Never mind he helped saved it; if it wasn't for McClane putting in a good old word, it could have been so much worse. Tony 'I-Actually-Don't-Need-A-Programmer' Stark waltzed into the compound one day, dressed like he was going to some casino in Morocco right at that moment. He looked at Matt from behind his shades, said, "Huh. I might as well," and pranced back out again, Matt in tow.

Seriously, Matt doesn't know either. He's vaguely aware that there'd been some exchange between the Feds and this other shady government agency Stark is involved with, and now he works with Stark Industries, kinda, except that he's based at Stark Tower instead of the main SI complex downtown, and his job is mostly to make sure that JARVIS doesn't turn evil or whatever, but JARVIS is much sharper than that (and he is one classy dude, anyway, Matt's not sure how someone like Stark managed to produce such a suavely polite AI). Matt's all about taking it easy and honestly, after that whole Fire Sale? Matt's taking it easy and taking it twice.

Stark trusts him with stuff, though. And Pepper Potts trusts him with Stark (even though he knew she did her own research on him and while she is normal in her own way, she is also kind of scary. In her own way.) Matt...appreciates all that, he does. He gets to look at weaponry designs that would make the Feds cream their collective pants, and he even gets a chance to test shit. At those times, Stark's continuous self-absorbed blather just fades away into the background, even as he feeds Matt glowing lines with careless flicks of his fingers and Matt pulls them in and turns them all around and tries to poke holes in the layers of security, fighting against JARVIS's beautiful, beautiful code--

("Fuck," Warlock had said when Matt had told him that he was working with Stark and yeah, that was about all he was allowed to say. "Fucking shit, I want to fuck Stark's AI so hard. With, like, my actual penis."

"I'll tell the AI that he has his very own fanclub," Matt had said and tried to edge away from Warlock's general area.)

\--and there were a couple times that he punched right through, but Stark always says he wasn't ready because Stark is maybe four years old at heart.

Okay, so sometimes Matt worries a little when Stark goes off with the other Avengers to fight bad guys, because these baddies are not the kind that give up after you throw them down elevator shafts or shoot them through your own shoulder; but he's seen how Stark's eyes go hard and bright at the same time, as piercing as that thing in his chest, when his phone gives that special trill or JARVIS says, "Your presence is being requested elsewhere, sir." He'd seen that expression on McClane's face, too, and he knows that Stark will never back down, not ever. Stark is an asshole, McClane was an asshole, but they were assholes worth having around, and Matt just worries, okay? Okay. Stark is his boss, Matt means, and if he gets exploded on one of those ridiculous missions, Matt isn't sure that he'd be able to keep this awesome set of benefits. Living quarters in the lower levels of Stark Tower? Solid health plan? Come on.

(He still worries about McClane. He wonders where he might be; McClane called him once or twice in the five years since the Fire Sale and then it's been mostly silence. Lucy calls him more often and her reports are vague-ish: "Yeah, he's working...I think? With some security firm, I guess."

But he worries. One of Matt's foster moms always said he was a worrier. Trouble finds McClane with distressing regularity, as far as Matt's very limited but quite extensive experience indicates, and the man doesn't think much of fucking over his own body to get the job done.)

A cool-ish thing about working for Stark, though? Getting glimpses of the other Avengers when Stark calls him up to the pent...houses (yes, multiple, because that is how Stark rolls), yelling at him over the intercom to _hurry your shit up, Farrell, you got some hacking to do and bring me the set of files on the armature I was designing the other day in the bottom labs. Jesus, yes, by files I mean that piece of napkin I was drawing on, why are you not here yet?_

The first time Matt met the Black Widow, he said, "Hey Mrs. Widow. _Mrs_ , since you're the Black Widow, you've been married a bunch of times before, right?" And he laughed, a high-pitched nervous sound, because she'd been sharpening about six hundred knives in front of the big television, looking at him with the same flat, unamused expression that cobras have. Right before they swallow mice whole.

"I mean," Matt had said and then fled because he kind of loved his life. Life is totally his favourite thing, he likes to keep it close.

"Yeaaaah," Stark said, laughing at him as he stumbled inside the top lab (not _the_ top lab, not where all the suits are, but the outer one, at least). "Yeah, just. Don't talk to Nat. She'll probably tear your balls off you if you annoy her too much. Gimme that design, gimme, gimme."

"I--" Matt wheezed, and then leaned against the glass door. The Black Widow is beautiful, but Matt keeps his distance at all times. At least a twenty-foot clearance.

At. All. Times.

Dr. Banner is... Matt tries not to let the hearts in his eyes shine too much at Dr. Banner, because the man is so fucking brilliant that Matt could sit down and just listen to him ramble forever when he wanders into Stark's labs. Rambling from Dr. Banner is in no way comparable to the rambling experienced when in close proximity to Stark. First of all, Dr. Banner is not a jerk. Secondly, Dr. Banner at times requires a response from other people during conversations and, get this, actually pauses for it.

"Listen, Tony, shush, listen to me for a damned moment," he hears Dr. Banner lecturing Stark very gently one day, "qualitatively, we're not going into the comparison between Harry Potter and Twilight, right now. I need you to just focus on the aspect of profitability here, for just one moment. You of all people can do that."

Matt hardly speaks to Dr. Banner, because if it's one thing that Matt crushes on and gets all tongue-tied over, it's capable intelligence. Which was why, for quite some time after the Fire Sale, he was completely unable to look directly in McClane's face. Anyway, he rarely interacts with the others, either, because Captain America and Thor are big and beefy and Matt has never had luck with the jock types; also, Captain America's intense patriotism gives him hives. Hawkeye doesn't seem to walk on the ground like normal people, and Black Widow is eventually going to kill him using just her lashes so for Matt it's mostly just Stark and trying to break into his monstrously secure systems.

"Shit," he mutters in annoyance one day when JARVIS manages to withstand a DDOS attack about the size of a virtual monsoon. "I'm so glad Stark isn't some kind of super-villain."

"So am I, Matthew," JARVIS says, patient confidence all over, and Matt tries not to smile too hard.

##

He barges into the upstairs labs one day, needing to show Stark a tiny security glitch he located in a new comms system that Stark had been throwing around the week before, and then skids to a halt because, hey, most of the Avengers are in here, scattered around the room in various modes of bored repose while Stark is ripping the belly out of what seems to be some kind of mechanized trash-can. Dr. Banner peers over Stark's shoulder, pointing with what looks like The Doctor's sonic screwdriver, Matt totally would not be surprised if it actually is.

There are two guys in suits sitting in a shadowy corner, but Matt ignores them for a moment because this glitch is important (he likes to see how the annoyance just floods Stark's face), and he's seen suits up here before. Well, just one, actually, and that one just takes reports and/or gives them, and then spends an inordinate amount of time being snarky with Hawkeye.

"Stark," he says, trying to crowd up on the other side of the trash-can. Banner smiles at him, so warm and kind and Matt smiles back. "What's up, Dr. B. Stark, look. Look, look, _look_. I found this hole in your code, you're gonna shit bricks."

"There's no hole in my codes, babyface," Stark tells him, then purses his lips and actually turns his head to blow annoyed air at Dr. Banner. "Bruce, give the kid the scanner. You're hopeless, you're not holding it like I need it."

"That's what she said," Hawkeye drawls from where he's sitting with the suits. He wasn't sitting there six seconds ago, but Matt's already decided that Hawkeye deserves at least the same range of avoidance that Black Widow gets. Black Widow looks up from this board-game she's playing with Captain America, and drops a very dangerous wink. Matt swallows, hard.

"Haha, fuck your face, Clint," Stark says and huh, Clint is Hawkeye's first name, how perfectly nonthreatening for a guy that can shoot a bird off a wire from maybe twenty miles away. Matt takes the scanner-thingy from Dr. Banner, who still has that little half-smile in his face. "Talk to me."

Matt blinks for a moment, and he realises that Stark's grudging mutter is directed at him, and so he launches into a detailed explanation of the location and size of the glitch, tucked away in layers and layers of numbers. Stark nods, managing to look a little sour but a lot intense, as if he's rebuilding this robot trash-can and following Matt's jumbled phrasing at the same time. In the midst of his excited dissertation, Matt hears a rough laugh from where the suits are still seated. Rough yet kind of low, soft, and Matt knows that laugh pretty well.

"Still the same Hackboy," one of the suits says, and Matt drops the scanner, only half-hearing Stark's cursing as he turns around and sees McClane sitting there and watching him with an amused expression.

##

Everything slows down. At least in Matt's head. He notices that McClane isn't exactly in a suit like the other man beside him; trousers, yeah, a nice jacket, yeah, and a blue shirt, check, but no tie. He has a badge pinned over the pocket of his jacket.

"Fucking shit," Stark says from where he's trying to squirm past loops of wiring to retrieve the scanner. "You're an idiot, Matt."

"McClane," Matt says, ignoring Stark. His voice sounds a little uneven to his own ears, trembling up at the end of the name as if he hadn't called it in a long time. Hawkeye glances at McClane without moving his head and then looks at Matt. 

"You two know each other?" he asks, and Matt nods, hardly able to breathe.

"Fire Sale incident some years ago." The other guy in the suit has a level tone, really mild and calm. He looks like he is pretty awesome at organizing files. "Agent McClane and Matthew Farrell helped avert it. I'm sure I've mentioned this in a recent debriefing when introducing McClane as a senior handler, Barton."

"I'm sure I didn't listen, _Coulson_ ," Hawkeye says, and yawns a little. "No wonder it's always _Agent McClane_ this, and _Agent McClane_ that. He's your type of guy."

"I have no type," this dude Coulson says, and McClane rolls his eyes a little.

"Always the fucking flirting between these two," McClane says, and give Matt an actual smile. "Anyway. Long time no see, kid."

"Yeah. It's...yeah, it's nice to see you too, McClane." Matt licks his lips and then, right, perfect, he feels his cheeks get warm again. 

"Oh- _ho_." Hawkeye has a glint in his eye, and an unholy grin on his face. Matt wants to punch him, except for the fact that Hawkeye would probably fill his face with arrows before he finished raising his arm. 

"I read about that," Captain America says from where he's frowning at the board and Black Widow is smirking in triumph. "That was good work."

Apart from that whole staggering compliment that has Matt rocking back on his heels a little, Captain America sounds...different from what Matt expects. He sounds _ordinary_ , some guy on the street. For that matter, McClane looks different too: that hunted expression on his face is gone, and he looks kind of relaxed. 

Matt wants to talk to him, alone, just... hear his low voice and listen to the cadence of his speech and maybe stare at those big dangerous hands a little, but there are Avengers lazing about and if it's one thing Matt has learned from his short time working with Stark, is that _Avengers are nosy shits that like to stick their nosy noses in other people's business, and keep invading the private labs and messing with Bruce's experiments and all the awesome new weaponry, what in the fucking fuck, who touched this_ (according to Stark. Who happens to be an Avenger). He wonders if he can maybe sidle over and give McClane his new number, when lights bloom red against the walls and JARVIS's smooth voice says, "Incoming emergency message from SHIELD."

Everyone in the room apart from Matt changes. It isn't anything overt, not like, haha, a big green monster (not that...that's actually not funny and he's really not a _monster_ but still); but everyone kind of transforms from this group of people sitting around in a room to _more_. Captain America stands up in his goofy plaid shirt and khaki chinos and says in a resolute tone: "Avengers, assemble," and that should have been super-corny except it that it isn't.

McClane and that Coulson guy get up too, and they're striding towards the door while Stark is doing that show-off thing and suiting up pretty rapidly using the suitcase unit. It's the first time that Matt's seen it done this close and shit, that thing is cool.

Dr. Banner catches his eye and say, "See you later, Matt," because hey, it's guaranteed that they'll all _always_ come back. That they'll be okay together, as a unit.

As a kid that bounced from house to house, Matt can say that this is not a valid guarantee.

"Kid," McClane says, and he's standing right in front of Matt, really close. He's holding out his phone, a recent Stark model and that kind of blows Matt's mind. This was the guy who had been allergic to anything more advanced than a pager. Matt pulls his own phone out of his pocket, and taps the two devices together so their information is exchanged.

"Nice." McClane tucks his phone back into his pocket and inclines his head. "Duty calls. I got to help herd these assholes and wrangle a bunch of junior agents."

"Hey. I _heard_ that," Iron Man says from the doorway.

"And yet you can't hear when we're calling you for dinner," Hawkeye says, twirling his bow in one hand and catching a knife and then a gun with the other, both thrown by Black Widow. "So _weird_."

"You can't _not_ help save the world, right?" Matt asks, and he's feeling light and heavy at the same time. "Hey, do me a favour and don't die. I just found you again," and _wow_ , that was a bit too heavy, right?

McClane doesn't seem to think so, because his face goes all soft. "Hey," he says, even as superheroes walk past them, suited up and ready to go. "I won't."

_fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from a Cobra Starship song that tends to pop up in my head every other week, [Send My Love to the Dancefloor, I'll See You In Hell](http://youtu.be/U771pl8lDSk):
> 
>  
> 
> _Get back, you know that this city is burning_  
>  So the story goes  
> It makes you wonder  
> 'Cause if we're trapped and we're never  
> Gonna find a way out,  
> Get out  
> We're gonna dance now
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Also I has a bannerrrrrr
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://s46.photobucket.com/albums/f111/lutchien/megyal/?action=view&current=fanficmegyal.jpg)  
> 


	2. Makes You Wonder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From [raiining](http://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining)'s suggestion: _I'd love it if Matt and Clint got drunk one night and started sharing crappy foster-care stories until Coulson and McClane came and rescued them :)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Mentions of childhood abuse** , nothing too physical, but pleasepleasePLEASE tell me if you think I can warn better.

"Hey kid," Hawkeye says, leaning in some random doorway and watching Matt with sleepy-sharp eyes. "What's your name, again?"

"Farrell," Matt says, wrinkling his brow. Hawkeye hardly speaks to him. Laughs at him, sure, looks at him with a blank expression when he's going a mile a minute with Stark, but speaking? Not so much with the speaking. 

"Farrell." Hawkeye repeats the name contemplatively, and nods.

"Yeah, that's my last name. First name Matt, middle name...uh, doesn't matter." Matt waggles the data-pad in his hands. "I'm gonna go, I have to deliver something to Stark before he dismantles a few of his bots due to a bug of mine."

"That was you," Hawkeye says and laughs a little. "Nice."

"Gonna...go," Matt repeats and scurries off because Hawkeye is creepy on too many levels. He _lives in the ceilings_. If he was a lolcat, that shit would have been hilarious but he is a _grown-ass man_ , how the hell does he even get up there and Matt kind of hates it when McClane just laughs at him when he's ranting about things like this.

He delivers the data-pad to Stark, who tells him that he is an unmitigated jackass for fooling with Dummy's and Butterfingers' codes, and then tells him to reprogram something that takes him fifteen minutes while Stark hovers over him, smug as shit. Dummy forgives him and so does Butterfingers, so it's cool. It's cool.

On his way back, he peers at the doorway that Hawkeye was just randomly standing in, and it lets into some kind of lounge, with a nice entertainment center and a collection of comfy-looking armchairs and couches. There's a long, low table in the middle of what is undoubtedly some interior designer's wet dream, and there's a tall bottle of brown liquid on a silver tray and a few glasses.

One of the glasses is being used. Someone is drinking alone.

Matt ventures inside and glances around. He's almost upon the sofa closest to the table before he realises that Hawkeye's stretched out in it, looking up at Matt with narrow-eyed awareness.

"Shit, you're creepy," he blurts out and Hawkeye laughs a little.

"Yeah," he says, very slowly and it's so so sad that he's in here drinking by himself. The Black Widow must be off somewhere killing people with her perfect thighs, and Thor is probably...doing...Thor-ish things? Matt has a vivid image of something with tentacles. A Kraken, Thor would definitely take on a Kraken by himself, just for kicks. Captain America doesn't drink, as far as Matt knows, and Dr. Banner drinks only beverages _made of awesome_ , that is what Matt believes. Believes it with his whole heart. Stark is a dick who drinks by himself, boo-hoo. 

Sad.

"Hey," he says, going around the couch and plopping down in a nearby armchair. "Pass me a glass, man."

Hawkeye gives him an amused look, but he gets up, pours him a really healthy measure and slides it in his general direction. Matt manages to catch it before it falls of the edge; he has reflexes, _what_.

"Bottoms up," Hawkeye says and snorts with laughter when Matt jokingly tries to stick his ass in the air. While remaining seated. That's totally his superpower: making people laugh.

\--

After the third glassful or so, he finds out Hawkeye--- _Clint_ , Clint Barton, totes the most ordinary name, right, so _Clint_ , he was a foster kid too. Matt should have known.

"I remember one week," Clint says, speaking very clearly because he obviously has some kind of filter in his bloodstream, "we got porridge for dinner. Every day. For one week. Porridge is fucking _sickening_ , okay?"

"What even _is_ porridge?" Matt asks, squinting at his glass. It's moving around the table's surface and he needs to get some drinky-drinky in it and then into himself. He rarely does this alcohol-ingesting thing, because he tends to giggle a lot, and he giggles now, just for the heck of it.

"One house I ended up in, their real son used to take some shit and blame us when his mom found the bottles." Matt shrugs it off, but Clint is looking at him with eyes that _know_ , because there are some stories that shouldn't be dragged into the light, stories far worse than porridge (seriously, what is that) and drugged-out assholes. Stories that involve blood, and tears and nights that were too cold to heed a kid crying for his real family.

"I used to hate Visit Days," Clint says, pouring out another glassful with an enviably steady hand. "Other kids had Visit Days. We, my brother and I, we didn't."

Matt closes his eyes, leans back his head against the back of the chair. "My mom used to come see me. She tried. Sometimes she didn't make it." _Because she doesn't love you, she never did_ , a voice floats up from the not-so-distant past and Matt swallows. His throat feels rough. He's never drinking like this again.

"Sometimes, I wonder where my brother is," Clint says, contemplatively. "Wonder what he's up to. If he remembers...what it was like."

Matt swallows again, hard.

"Farrell," someone says from the door, and Matt opens his eyes, staring at the ceiling. He turns his face towards the door and McClane--no, TWO MCLANES--are standing there in that awesome suit, hands folded over his chest. Agent Coulson's bland face is peering over his shoulder.

"Hey," Matt tries to say but nothing but mixed up-consonants fall out. He laughs and then kind of ends up crying, this is some embarrassing shit. _Pull yourself together, Farrell_ , he tells himself, and his mental voice sounds a lot like McClane's. "Hey. McClane, did you know I was. A...I just, I used to live in foster homes. Did you know this?" That came out clear enough. Good. He really needs to know if McClane knows this.

"I know," McClane says, and when did he get over here, helping Matt to his feet? For a dude his age, he moves so fast. He's a superhero. He saves _lives_ , and even when he's among superpowered people, Matt thinks he's the one of the best human beings ever.

"Clint Barton was a foster kid too," he says, earnestly, because while Hawkeye is kind of dangerous, Clint Barton is a dick but he's a cool dick. He made it, and Matt made it, and they're okay now. McClane has his arm around him, and he's warm and solid. When Matt looks towards Clint's couch, Clint is sitting up, his head hanging down, forearms braced on his thighs and hands clasped between his knees. Agent Coulson is on one knee in front of him, there's a proposal joke floating around here _somewhere_ , and he has one hand resting lightly on one of Clint's knee, murmuring something, his calm gaze intent on Clint's bowed head.

He has one hand on Clint's knee.

One hand.

On Clint's knee.

There's something important about that? But Matt can hardly walk and it's nice to lean on McClane and maybe rest his head on McClane's broad shoulder. He can _do_ that. He made it. He works with Tony Stark and he gets to hang out with drunk Avengers, he fucking made it.

"Later, Clint," he calls out, and staggers out with McClane.

There's a long, slow beat and Clint's voice floats out with room with him, "Later, Matt."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually like porridge, if my mother makes it for me. And one day my dad gave me and my brother some water to drink and he said, "Bottoms up," and we tried to turn our asses up in the air while we were drinking. We were dorks.


	3. There's No Way You Can Change Me Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Agent McClane, I've noticed something. A pattern, if you will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter written for The [Sexy Right](http://sexy-right.livejournal.com/) Fic Tac Toe challenge. Sexy Right is a John/Matt community on LJ, I love it.  
> Prompt from my Fic Tac Toe board: 'explosion'. Title, like the rest of the chapters so far, are from the Cobra Starship song, [Send My Love to the Dancefloor, I'll See You In Hell](http://youtu.be/U771pl8lDSk).

"Agent McClane, I've noticed something. A pattern, if you will," Agent Coulson says, reloading his weapon with the kind of cool that impresses John, and he really isn't the kind of person who gets impressed easily. Maybe it's because they're standing beside Hawkeye on top of a burning building and there are tiny disks, flat and metallic, hurling towards their position, shooting fucking _lasers_ , and Coulson is speaking with the slightly absent tone one would use when they're filling out a progress report.

John shoots four of the disks out the air (Hawkeye gets thirteen, but no-one is really counting, okay), and then glances at Coulson out of the corner of his eye.

"Are you going to share this pattern, Coulson?" John asks, dry because he really doesn't know how else to be. "Or do I need clearance from Fury to hear it?"

Hawkeye snickers and takes down fifteen more of the disks. John hates being around these guys because at his age and rank, he can't be starry-eyed at some hotshot with killer aim, and at some secret agent man who approached him months ago with a bland expression and a crazy proposition. Sometimes he wonders what the fuck happened, why the hell did he say _yeah, sure_ , because now his life basically consists of helping to herd people with super-powers, super-brains and super-abilities; and there's Matt, who's over in Stark Towers, probably bouncing around the labs with his eyes large and dark, numbers whirling around his messy head.

"Explosions happen around you a lot," Coulson says and John scowls at a disk that manages to slip under Hawkeye's wall of arrows and zings a spot near his left shoe.

"Really." John doesn't have the time nor the energy for the randomness of this conversation. Matt, maybe; not him.

"Really," Coulson echoes and yanks an arrow out of a nearby disk, handing it to Hawkeye with friendly ease. "I ran it by Statistics and Tactical. There's an eighty percent increase in the chance of an explosion within a forty-five foot circumference about your person."

"That's totally true," Matt chirps over the comms and John rolls his eyes. "I should know that. I've been there for at least one-third of those explosions."

"Not even close, kid," John says, firing over Coulson's shoulder. "Maybe one-sixth."

"Look, Matt, did you run those frequency numbers or not?!" Iron Man gripes over the comms.

"Of course I ran them!" Matt sounds a bit defensive, the ends of his words curling up. "You were right about the numbers, you keep asking me to confirm things you and JARVIS _already know_."

"Sometimes I need the human touch, what can I say," Iron Man says, and while his words are sharp, almost harsh, there's a slight fondness there. John can relate; despite his general weirdness, it's easy to be fond of Matt. "You got that, Cap?"

"Got it." Captain America's tone in the earpiece is markedly different from Steve Rogers blearily drinking his tea when Coulson and John walk in for meetings in the tower, blinking at them with his hair stuck all over his head and barely mumbling his responses. Steve is not a morning person; Captain America is an all-day kind of person.

"Widow, if you're in position, you can tune that frequency to the commanding unit," Captain America orders. There is no response, but John knows that where the Black Widow is, she can't respond. She can, of course, be deadly and efficient with the little gizmo Iron Man gave her to short-circuit the controlling brain of these invading disks.

"Wait!" Matt yells over the comms and everyone winces. "Wait wait wait, I...JARVIS, just. Hey, this isn't right."

"It isn't," JARVIS agrees. "Sir, the frequency mutated, and changed location."

"Wondered when they were going to do that," Iron Man mutters. "The signal spread out, shit."

"To where?" Cap demands. "Talk to me."

" _Everywhere_ ," Matt says. "But there's still a strong signal coming from the commanding unit. It needs something bigger than the jammer Mrs. Widow's got."

John gets up from where he'd been kneeling and adjusts his tie, relying on Coulson and Hawkeye to cover him. He's surprised to find he likes wearing ties (even though he'd been rigidly averse to them at the start), possibly due to the way Matt's eyes light up when he sees John walk through the door, his gaze trailing with appreciation down and up John's body. It's damned flattering, is what it is, and why not? Matt's young and sexy in a reedy, intense way and John's not about to tell him to stop looking. It doesn't change the fact that he's never going to make a move, but he'll take Matt's gaze fixed on him. He'll take it just fine.

"Going to make something explode?" Agent Coulson asks, smiling up in that mild way he has. John is real glad he's on Coulson's side. The man is that kind of dangerous that you don't see coming, and that is the worst kind of dangerous there is.

"You bet your ass."

Coulson inclines his head. He doesn't tell John to stand down, he doesn't tell John that he's not following the plan.

All he says is, "Do your thing," and then over the comm: "Captain, Agent McClane is going to attempt diversionary tactics. Please hold position."

"Holding," Captain America confirms. "Let's see what you got, Agent McClane."

"Yeah, McClane," Matt says, his voice a soft challenge over the comms. "You've been blowing things up since 1988. Show these noobs what you got."

+

When the smoke clears, only Matt is really unsurprised at the level of damage one man can cause, and his delighted laughter through the earpiece really does something in John's chest...like a sweet, soft explosion.

Seriously, he needs to get that check-up Coulson's always on his ass about. An explosion in his chest. Jeez Louise.


	4. Can't Be Too Hard to Make It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lunch-date with Lucy; of course, because this is John's life, there is an explosion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter written for The [Sexy Right](http://sexy-right.livejournal.com/) Fic Tac Toe challenge (even though that challenge is over).  
> Prompt from my Fic Tac Toe board: Lucy. Title, like the rest of the chapters so far, are from the Cobra Starship song, [Send My Love to the Dancefloor, I'll See You In Hell](http://youtu.be/U771pl8lDSk).  
> WARNINGS: This chapter contains mention of a loss of a child/baby; please take care if that topic is triggering to you

"You're in a rush." Agent Coulson- _Phil_ \--taps the stack of papers to neaten them before sliding them into sturdy file jacket. He seems to take in every detail of John getting ready to leave the office they share without moving his head.

"Having lunch with my kid," John says, shrugging on his jacket. Thanks to Phil here, that suave little shit, these days John dresses like he's always going to some dinner party, possibly somewhere the sun is always shining because he needs to have the shades on as well. Thank fuck he pulls off the secret agent look in a passable manner. 

Phil arches a brow in his general direction, still mostly focussed on the remainder of the sit-reps atop his neat desk. "Your kid? Specialist Farrell?"

John stops in the middle of straightening his tie, staring at the side of Coulson's face. "What?"

"Specialist Farrell," Phil says and then looks up. A wry air infuses his normally unreadable face, probably at the way John's own eyebrows have climbed his forehead. For someone whom all the junior agents claim is an android, Phil has a pretty wide array of facial expressions. Just gotta get behind the mask, was all.

"Oh. You meant your daughter, or your son." Phil shrugs, a tiny movement of his shoulders as he returns to his files. "You call Specialist Farrell _kid_ a lot. It was a wrong assumption on my part."

"Also, he's not _my_ kid," John tells him, a bit forcefully. "He's…he's his own kid."

Phil hums, a very noncommittal sound.

"And it's Lucy. Lunch-date," John says, running a palm quickly over his lapel. He's not sure why he feels he has to tell Phil these things. Phil probably has an annotated file on John, expounding on pertinent details such as how Jack's idea of talking to his father is vague but very regular messages sent via Lucy or Holly, or the fact that his kids have step-siblings now via Holly's second husband, and they seem abnormally okay with that fact. 

"That's nice," Phil says, looking up and smiling in a way that indicates that he really _does_ think it's nice. Phil is kind of a soft touch like that, and it's an interesting juxtaposition to how he can use a felt-tip marker as a lethal weapon. "You're an anomaly in SHIELD, John."

"Hey, them's fighting words," John tells him with an answering smile. "Why? Because I have a daughter that talks to me?"

"You have children," Phil says, and there's no inflection to his tone, no indication of derision or envy. It's just a statement of fact. "Eighty-five per cent of our active agents are single, and without children. Just a part of the job."

"In addition to being married to it," John says. "Thought _you'd_ have kids, though. You look like the stern dad type."

He's joking a little, teasing his co-handler, but something about Phil's entire frame goes still, almost watchful.

After a few slow beats, Phil says, "I had a kid. She died."

Even though John didn't mean to be hurtful, he still feels as if he's stuck his big old foot into his mouth. Phil seems calm and patient as usual, but as he glances as John, there seems to be something that's made of old pain in the very back of his eyes.

Phil smiles, and it's so sad around the edges of his lips. "She was just a baby. Her mother and I had been dating for a few years and she got pregnant. Gina…that's my daughter's name, it's Regina…we found her in her crib one morning, not breathing." Phil exhales slowly. "She was just gone."

John, who can't imagine his life without his beautiful, stubborn daughter, just looks at Phil.

"I'm sorry, man," he says, very softly.

"Planned my whole life around her," Phil murmurs, and he seems very far in his head right now, gone deep. "She was going to get everything we could ever give her." He shakes himself a little and now he's back, all the way to Agent P.J. Coulson again, straightlaced and straightfaced. "Her mother and I broke up a little after that. And then SHIELD came along."

"Story of your life," John says and Phil smiles, leaning back in his chair.

"Story of my life."

John hesitates now; he'd wanted to invite Phil to lunch with his daughter, but now he's not so sure that's a good idea.

"What is it?" Phil asks, gazing at his face curiously; this man misses nothing. 

"I was gonna ask you if you wanted to come with," John says, very slowly. Phil blinks at him. "To lunch with me and Lucy, that is. You know. Help me with my cover, shit like that." Ostensibly, SHIELD doesn't exist for most regular folks unless they were very suspicious conspiracy theorists. Therefore John, to his family at the very least, is a security consultant for a tech company. John finds that he doesn't quite mind the artifice as he thought he would have.

Phil's face is a study in fleeting emotion.

"You don't have to—"

"I'd love to meet Lucy." Phil stands up, arranging all his file-folders with efficient movements and walking over to place them in a harmless looking cabinet that's Stark-designed, which means it can probably defend itself violently. "Your tab, of course."

"Fucking cheapskate," John says, but he feels relieved. "Matt's going to be there too, fair warning. Barton as well. Your favourite."

Phil rolls his eyes but doesn't answer. He simply makes that noncommittal hum again, as they stride out the door together.

+

The restaurant is a nice quiet place near the Stark Tower, which means that Matt and Barton can simply walk there. John and Phil are silent as they make their way through the hurrying lunch-crowd, and when they step inside, John immediately spots the pale flash of Lucy's palm and the fire-brand of her hair at a table in the opposite corner. 

John hurries over, smiling as Lucy gets to her feet and kisses him on his cheek. He hugs her, squeezing a little until she makes complaining sounds, and then pulls back to lift a hand in Phil's direction.

"This is Phil," he says. "Co-worker."

Lucy grins widely.

"Hi, Phil!" She steps towards Phil and actually hugs him; it's strange how she reacts to different people. She rarely hugs Matt, although she adores him; she's more liable to grab Matt by the arm and drag him around. John looks on in amusement as Phil gains an air of surprise (an expression not seen in the middle of a fire-fight involving Iron Man's repulsor blasts and bursts of alien magic) and then it melts into his normal bland mode, with just a dash of amusement. He returns her hug very carefully, and extricates himself with easy politeness.

"It's nice to meet you," Phil says as they take a seat, nodding at the waiter as they're handed their menus. "John talks about you a lot."

"Really?" Lucy's eyes twinkle. "Most of it is lies, I guess."

"Nope." John glowers at her over the top of his menu. "I never lie about you, kiddo."

Lucy pouts at him playfully and then swings her focus to Phil once more. "You work in the same office as Dad, Phil?" she asks and John tries not to preen at the word 'dad' being used once more. "Same department…security consultant, right?"

"Yes," Phil says, a small smile in his tone. John doesn't look over at him, but he's a little astonished. Usually, Phil's cover is something like internal auditor, or legal rep. "John and I share an office, actually."

"Good." Lucy nods in satisfaction. "He really needs someone sensible around him at _all times_."

"Hey," John says, but he can't be annoyed, especially when Lucy is grinning at him. Lucy sits her back towards the door, and so John and Phil can see when Barton and Matt stroll in and head towards them. John raises his eyebrows; they look as if they're coming from some office meeting, in dress-pants and button-up shirts. Beside him, John senses the way Phil goes briefly still.

"What is it?" Lucy starts to turn around, but Matt pounces on her, hugging her around her shoulders and kissing her on her cheek. "Matt!" she cries and swats him on the arm. "You idiot, you scared me."

"That was the plan," Matt says, plopping down in the seat beside her. "Hey, McClane. 'Sup, Phil."

" _Sup_ ," Phil responds, flatly. "Hello," he says to Barton, who flashes a quick smile.

"Hello," Barton says, a low warm rumble and then sticks out his hand over the table at Lucy. "Clinton," he says as they shake hands, "but you can call me Clint. I work with these guys, too."

" _Clinton_?" Matt asks, laughing a little. 

"You should hear my middle name," Barton says and then narrows his eyes. "I'd have to kill you after, though."

John chuckles as Matt shoots Barton a mistrustful glance over the top of the menu. They order, and the food arrives in a reasonable time. John doesn't taste much of it; he's caught up in talking to his daughter, listening to her laugh and smiling at her cheerful expression. He glances at Phil from time to time, hoping this isn't…too much for him, but Phil has that pleasant expression on his face, similar to the one he puts on around civilians, but a bit warmer. 

Of course, because this is John's life, there is an explosion a few blocks down. Glasses topple over, the floor shakes. People in the restaurant begin to bolt, scrambling for any open exit, because even though they're used to alien attacks and so on, it's always wise to make a run for it.

"Oh, crap," Matt says, and he stares at John accusingly, as if John is the direct cause for this. John shrugs, and they all get to their feet. John pulls Lucy to the wall with him. When she looks up in his face, he thinks he sees trust, all twisted up in that toughness she has, with a sliver of fear shoved all the way back.

"I'm out," Barton says and he runs off towards a staircase that leads to the roof, pulling at the collar of his shirt. Matt has already pulled out a Starkpad, muttering at it and flicking his fingers over the surface.

John twists his tiny comm-unit in his ear and grimaces at the whining feedback. Phil gets it too, doesn't flinch; _hardass_ , John thinks fondly.

"Something's messing with our feed," Matt says and hunkers down when there's another explosion. "Lemme…wait…okay. I got this. I'll just go through _here--_ "

John hears Barton's voice turned up in his ear as if from a disobedient radio.

"…hear me? McClane? Coulson?" 

"Coulson here," Phil says. "Tell me what you see."

"It's Wednesday, so that means smoke and tentacles, sir." Barton laughs a little.

"I take it that they're after the Tower,"¬¬¬ Phil says, and John feels more than sees Lucy shoot him a contemplative look. "How many can you take out?"

"No ordnance yet, sir. Waiting on delivery."

"I'm on it," Black Widow says. "Three minutes."

McClane takes out his own datapad and the display flickers to life under his touch. He can _feel_ Lucy's incredulous stare boring a hole into the side of his head.

"Dr. Banner and Thor, standby," he says.

"Will do, Agent McClane," Dr. Banner responds in a resigned tone, while Thor simply releases a deep, happy laugh, the sound thrumming through the comms. That guy loves to brawl. He's actually one of John's favourites.

"Farrell," Stark says, his tone a harsh bark. "I need you to make sure the Tower's back-up grid isn't under attack."

"Got it, boss," Matt says and then murmurs something to his Starkpad, probably some voice-activated password. From this distance, John hears JARVIS' soft reply.

"Dad," Lucy says in a very normal tone of voice. "Daddy, I think there's something you need to tell me."

"Okay, Luce," John says, frowning at the display on his datapad. There are a lot of very large objects floating around out there, and he's pretty sure 57% of them are of non-terran origin.

At least, that's according to the datapad.

"I'm serious, _John_ ," Lucy says, and that is indeed her serious voice. He glances at her and she's glowering back at him.

John sets his jaw. "I'm not sure how much I'm allowed to tell you, Lucy-Goose."

"I'm authorised to give her a certain clearance," that dickhead Coulson says and he grins, he _grins_ , when John scowls at him. "Considering her Management major in Strategy and International Business, that might be necessary: we're considering recruiting her into SHIELD."

"Are you seriously trying to hire my daughter in the middle of a citywide attack?" John wonders aloud. "What, you had this planned, or something?"

Coulson gives him a disappointed stare, but he doesn't say no.

"I might get a job? Because I need a new job." Lucy's expression is excited and it doesn't diminish when they all have to duck as the plate-glass to the front of the restaurant explodes in a thunderstorm of shards. "Really? Dad, you work for SHIELD?"

John blinks at her. "Yes?"

Coulson sighs. "We’ve lost a lot of our clandestine street-cred recently. I blame Youtube. And Stark."

"What are the benefits like?" Lucy demands and a large tentacle, the dark-green bumpy skin covered in thick slime, crawls in through the window. 

"Let's get you to safety first." Coulson gets to his feet and holds out a hand to Lucy. "Then we can talk health insurance and pay-scales."

"I ain't happy with the idea of Lucy working for SHIELD," John says, but Lucy and Coulson ignore him as she's hauled to her feet. "I just want to put that out there."

"It's not like she would be in the field, McClane, even if she _does_ take the job," Matt mutters from beside him. John grabs him by the arm and checks him over, real quick; he'd been the closest to the glass window. Matt glances at him out of the corner of his eye. It's an amused look, friendly and sly at the same time. There's another explosion, but John barely feels it because he's concentrating real hard on not giving in to the impulse to press his mouth to Matt's lips. 

Strange times: there's a tentacle grabbing and holding a bottle a few tables over, waving it around; his daughter might end up working for SHIELD; and he wants to kiss another guy half his age. He releases Matt's arm, distracting himself by drawing his firearm and drawing a bead on the alien appendage.

"And even if she does opt for field-assignments, I'm sure she has enough combat experience to handle herself. After all, she's your daughter," Coulson points out. Such a dick.

Clint dashes out from the stairwell, still dressed in his nice going-out-to-eat clothes, but one sleeve is ripped off and his trousers are singed. His hair is on end but at least he's got his bow; all in all, it's actually a very rakishly heroic effect, especially when he gets out four arrows into the tentacle, arms moving in a blur. He tips a quick salute to Coulson.

"Roof is secure, sir. Widow has the Quinjet waiting for extraction. And one of those arrows is a timed explosive. So, uh, hurry."

"Let's go," John says, even as Lucy is whispering over her shoulder at him, "Oh my god, that's _Hawkeye_ , Clinton is Hawkeye!"

John sighs. 

"If she does," Matt huffs as they race up the stairs, because only Matt would consider continuing a conversation while trying to escape a mortal threat, "then we'd look out for her. Same way Stark looks out for me, but it's kind of in a self-centered way. Dickish, you know?"

"Fuck you, Farrell," Stark says over the comms, but it's without heat.

"Not that you're self-centered," Matt amends, climbing into the Quinjet. "But you get the point."

John stares at the side of Matt's face as he goes back to his digital hyberbabbble with JARVIS, just taking in the faint stubble on his cheek, and the detail of his ear; then John glances forwards to see Coulson in the row of seats right in front of him, gazing back.

"I'd take care of her as if she was my own daughter," Coulson says, so quietly that John can hardly hear him over the high-pitched whine of the jet's boosters. John looks at his face, and then allows one side of his mouth to twitch up.

"Okay, pal," John says. "Good luck with that."


End file.
